turn me down.’
‘You may believe you’re Prince Charming,’ Tarn said, forcing herself somehow to speak lightly as she scrambled up from her rock. Struggling to behave as if the whole world had not turned upside down. ‘But this couple walking their dog probably think you’re an escaped lunatic.’
Caz turned towards the elderly man and woman, walking arm in arm along the beach, their Jack Russell scampering ahead of them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he called. ‘Isn’t this a wonderful day?’
The man looked dubiously at the sky. ‘I reckon we’ve had the best of it, and it’s clouding over for rain. The weather’s always treacherous at this time of year.’
Treacherous, thought Tarn. Why had this man, this stranger, chosen that of all words?
‘Darling, you’re shivering, and our coats are in the car.’ Caz spoke with compunction. He untied the sweater looped casually around his shoulders. ‘Wear this.’
Obediently, Tarn pulled the enveloping softness over her head, knowing as she did so that the freshening breeze from the sea was not the problem, and that a dozen layers of cashmere would never be enough to alleviate the icy numbness building inside her. Possessing her. Making her feel she would never be warm again.
Oh, God, she thought desperately. What have I done? And what am I doing? I don’t seem to know any more.
Worst of all, I’m not sure I know myself. And that terrifies me.
IT WAS a largely silent journey back to London.
Caz was quietly attentive, asking if she was warm enough, or if she’d like to listen to some music. Tarn assented politely to both propositions, hoping that the second option would avoid any more discussion of his plans for their future. However, she declined a further suggestion that they should stop somewhere for tea.
She wanted to get back, she thought, because she needed to think. To work out what to do next. If that was possible.
The CD he picked featured a woman singer she did not recognise, with a deep, almost harsh bluesy voice, whose lyrics were, without exception, a disturbing exploration of love, and all its confusing complexities.
Something else Tarn could well have done without.
She told herself that everything Caz had said to her on the beach was entirely meaningless and just part of a well-worn routine. That he’d probably gone on his knees to Evie in exactly the same way.
Yet, in spite of all that, she could still remember how the look in his eyes had made her breathless and the way his smile had reached out to touch her. Could feel the clasp of his hand round hers as they returned to the car, strong and sure as if he would never let her go, and catch the familiar scent of his cologne on the sweater she was still wearing.
Which, of course, she could return. Disposing of all those other sensations was an entirely different matter.
How, she asked silently, was it possible for him to sound so sincere? To almost make her believe…
She stopped right there. That was not a line she needed to follow.
Although for him to want her had been, of course, an essential part of her plan. She’d intended to rouse him to a fever pitch of unsatisfied desire, before slamming him into limbo, harshly and very publicly. And thanks to Lisa, she’d already worked out the perfect occasion.
‘Each June, there’s a garden party at a house called Winsleigh Place,’ her editor had told her. ‘Everyone in the company is invited from the directors to the cleaners and catering staff. Coaches are laid on to take us all there and back, so no-one is tempted to drink and drive. There’s a wonderful buffet lunch, with non-stop champagne, and in the evening, a dance, with more glorious food. And Caz provides it all.’
So the entire Brandon ensemble would hear the unpleasant truth about their supposed Lord Bountiful, Tarn had resolved, even as she smiled and said with perfect truth, ‘It sounds perfect.’
But today’s turn of events had thrown her scheme back into the melting pot. If she refused his proposal, she would have revenge of a sort, but it would be a private matter between the two of them, and she wanted more than that.
On the other hand, if she agreed, then she would almost certainly attend the garden party as his fiancée, and any attempt to discredit him would reflect just as badly on her. People would wonder how she could possibly have become engaged to him, knowing what she did.
And I wouldn’t be able to answer them, she thought.
Unless, of course, he intended to keep her under wraps until he was tired of her, as he’d clearly done with Evie. A thought that twisted inside her like a knife.
But even that possibility seemed totally unable to negate any of the feelings towards him that had taken such an astonishing and unwelcome hold on her almost from the beginning, and intensified so alarmingly over the last forty-eight hours.
She felt as if two entirely different women were occupying her skin and fighting for the domination of her mind. And she had to make sure that the right one became the ultimate winner.
Because she could not let herself be beguiled by the sensuous passion of his mouth, or give way to the kind of impulse which had almost led her to stroke the dark silk of his hair as he knelt at her feet.
Nor could she allow herself to forget that, in the end, she’d been saved, not by her own strength of will, but by an amateur weather forecaster with a Jack Russell terrier.
And how shameful was that? she thought bitterly.
Della had once asked how she might have reacted to Caz if they’d simply met as strangers without Evie’s involvement, and she’d replied dismissively, defensively.
If she asked me the same question now, she thought, I don’t know what I’d say.
When they eventually reached her flat, Caz left the engine running as he turned and gave her a long, steady look. ‘I’m not going to ask if I can come up with you,’ he said quietly. ‘Because I know damned well that I’d try a different kind of persuasion—in bed. And that wouldn’t be right or fair.’
She bit her lip. ‘Thank you. I want you to know that, whatever happens, you’ve given me the loveliest day.’ She reached for the door handle, and hesitated. ‘Oh—your sweater…’
‘Keep it,’ he said. His smile was faintly crooked. ‘It looks far better on you than it ever did on me.’ He paused. ‘When you’ve made up your mind, whichever way it goes, call me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I don’t trust myself to kiss you either, in case you’re wondering.’
Her own attempt to smile was a failure. ‘You’re—very strong-minded.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I feel I’ve put quite enough pressure on you already.’ He ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. Touched it briefly to her mouth.
